


53 Days

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: 53 days after the wedding, Sherlock comes out of his room and finds John asleep on the sofa.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally part of a single post of [Tumblr](http://roquentine19.tumblr.com/) ficlets that just got too unwieldy.)

The first time it happens is 53 days after the wedding. **  
**

Sherlock wakes just after 7am to a text from Lestrade: a body with no head has been found in the back of an abandoned lorry in Islington. Brilliant. He has a quick wash, returns to his room to throw on the same shirt and trousers he wore yesterday because no one will notice, and he’s back down the hall and almost at the door when he is stopped in his tracks.

By John. Asleep. On the couch.

On no particular Wednesday morning, John Watson is asleep on the couch. He’s on his stomach, facing the room, his head pillowed on his jacket, snoring lightly and otherwise motionless.

Sherlock blinks as the possibilities ping around his brain at light speed. He has a theory, but will need more data.

So he leaves it for now and instead moves quietly down the stairs and hails a cab.

* * * * *

John isn’t there when Sherlock gets back from Islington later that afternoon, and isn’t there the next morning, and hasn’t texted to say _Oh by the way I slept on your couch last night and I know you know because you were gone when I left_ , and so Sherlock, heeding Mycroft’s repeated lessons about boundaries (which consist of Mycroft saying “Boundaries, Sherlock,” in that sing-song tone of his), leaves it alone.

The next time it happens is 18 days after the first time. Mycroft insisted that they visit their parents for the weekend - “It _is_ their anniversary, Sherlock” - and Sherlock petulantly refuses to spend two hours with him in the back of a car on Friday night but agrees to take the first train Saturday morning.

So he’s trying to leave the flat at 5:15am and of course it’s raining and as he moves into the living room to grab his laptop from the desk he’s calculating how long it will take him to get a cab and he stops because there’s John again, on the couch, asleep, in very nearly the exact same position.

Sherlock stares at him but just for a second because he really is worried about finding a cab and if he misses the train Mycroft will seethe the entire weekend. He slips out.

His theory has crossed the line into balance of probability.

* * * * *

The third time is 25 days after the second time.

Sherlock wakes from a fitful sleep at 3am, tosses and turns and proves the quadratic equation in his head and finally decides it’s as good a time as any to work on the etude he’s been composing. He shrugs his dressing gown on over his pyjamas and switches on the kettle as he shuffles through the kitchen.

And there he is again. Always in the same position.

The probability is now a certainty.

The baby isn’t his.

Sherlock sinks into his chair and stares at John’s motionless figure while he waits for the kettle to boil. The fact that he’s seen John several times in between these erratic visits, and John knows that Sherlock knows he’s been there, and John hasn’t tried to cover it up with a _Sorry mate, too many pints with Stamford and I still have a key, you don’t mind do you?_ , means he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Or maybe he wants Sherlock to ask him about it?

Sherlock decides to make tea with maybe just a slightly higher than usual amount of noise, trying to wake John up in a way that appears accidental. Teapot, cups, saucers, milk, sugar, spoons clink onto the tray. When he carries it into the living room, John is sitting up, leaning forward, rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock puts the tray down on the table, pours his own cup, adds milk and four sugars, and returns to his chair.

John looks at the tray and laughs. “Sherlock, it’s three in the morning.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s herbal. You can go back to sleep.”

John pours his tea, adds a splash of milk, and sits back into the couch.

“You’re not going to ask me why I’m here? Why I’ve… been here?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” John admits.

“Then I won’t ask.”

They sip their tea a while.

“Of course, I have already deduced it.”

John drops his teacup to the saucer with a frustrated sigh. “Sherlock…”

“I’m saying, we don’t have to talk about it. I just thought you would like to know that I know.”

John looks at his tea, and nods. “All right.”

They continue to drink their tea in silence.

When he’s finished, John sets the saucer back on the tray and rubs his hands over his eyes again. “Do you mind if I stay? Just… another couple of hours.”

“Of course. But your room is still… I mean, the bed’s still there. You don’t want to sleep upstairs?”

“No,” John says, stretching out and rolling to his stomach, back into the same position Sherlock always finds him. “I’m fine here.”

He closes his eyes. Sherlock watches him fall asleep, and finishes his tea, and goes back to bed.

But not to sleep. He doesn’t go back to sleep. He lays there, for a long time, not sleeping.

Why?

Because it’s the first time he _knows_ John is out there?

That’s not why. That can’t be why. Knowing John is out there, asleep, is not why he is in here, not asleep.

Whatever the reason, he is not asleep for a long time, and he is not asleep when daylight breaks and he is not asleep when he hears John get up from the couch and make his way through the kitchen and down the hall and Sherlock stops breathing when John is outside his door.

Except John uses the loo, and then leaves the flat.

And Sherlock punches the pillow because the not sleeping and the not breathing are definitely things that require more data, and he’s not sure it’s data he wants to collect.

* * * * *

The fourth time is nine days later, and Sherlock is awake when John comes through the door.

He hasn’t been staying awake every night since, waiting for him. Of course not. He just happens to be awake this night, at 11:41pm, when John’s key opens the front door.

He stops breathing again. _Stop it_ , he tells himself, _stop stop breathing, that is impractical, it is a sign of… fear? Why would you be afraid of John, John has walked into this room a thousand times before…_

But when he walks in for the thousand and first, he’s carrying a duffel bag.

“Can I stay?” His voice is strained, and he clears his throat.

Sherlock nods, in a vague “whatever” way, because he’s frozen, his heart pounding in his chest.

John turns and climbs the stairs.

Sherlock flounces into motion and begins to pace. He can no longer ignore the not sleeping and the not breathing and the not moving and the heart pounding, because these are not signs of fear, exactly, but signs of _adrenaline_ , and why would _John_ be causing _adrenaline_ in the _living room_ this is _ridiculous._

“Sherlock.”

He spins around. John is standing in the doorway. When did that happen? “What?”

“You know you just said all of that out loud.”

Sherlock freezes. Panic. _Adrenaline._ “Which part?”

“All of it. The not sleeping or breathing or moving and how I’m causing adrenaline in the living room.” John takes one step into the room, and his voice drops. “I bet I could cause more.”

“I don’t think I have any left,” Sherlock whispers.

“Really? What if I said that in five seconds, I’m going to walk over to you, put my hand behind your neck, and kiss you as hard as I can?”

Sherlock’s knees actually, literally buckle, just for a split second, but it’s long enough for John to see.

“Yep, there it is,” John says, crossing the room and doing exactly what he promised.

In the back of his mind somewhere, somewhere that has not gone sideways with _kissing John I’m kissing John there’s kissing,_ Sherlock wonders if John can feel his heart which he is convinced in this moment is beating out of his chest and directly into John’s. _But that’s impossible, isn’t it. Isn’t it?_

After a long moment, they separate, but John’s hand is still on his neck, and he presses their foreheads together.

“When I asked if I can stay before,” John breathes, “I meant for good. Is that… would that be okay, do you think?”

Sherlock, who can’t actually stop breathing this time because he’s breathless already, steps back to look at him, and furrows his brow.

“For good.”

“Yeah.”

“Upstairs?”

John takes a deep breath. “Well, I can, at first, if you’d prefer, but the idea was… no, not upstairs. Eventually.”

“No.”

“No?” John pulls back, maybe a bit confused, considering what just happened.

Sherlock shakes his head as if to clear it. “I mean, I think I would prefer you not upstairs not eventually, but not upstairs now. Starting now.”

John can’t help a chuckle. “I like what adrenaline does to your Broca’s area.”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“It seems to be doing things to other areas, too.”

“Yeah. Let’s go not upstairs and see what we can do about that.”

* * * * *

The first time it happens is 105 days after the wedding.

* * * * *


End file.
